


The Snows of Yesteryear

by rachel2205



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 18:45:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel2205/pseuds/rachel2205
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1869, Violet Hare considers a proposal from Lord Grantham; in 1919, Violet Crawley thinks about her first love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snows of Yesteryear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fragrantwoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragrantwoods/gifts).



> A little bit of the dialogue in this is picked up from the show, including the phrase "Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?", which is from the medieval poem "Ballade des dames du temps jadis". It was popular in the nineteenth century after its translation into English by Gabriel Dante Rossetti.
> 
> I've added a couple of real families/places for a bit of historical verisimilitude, but of course nothing said here is meant to represent real people! We know that Violet was the daughter of a baronet, and so I have made her a Hare of Stow Hall in Norfolk; the Hare baronetcy was created in 1818. Her sister Roberta was at the Siege of Lucknow; I have thus implied she was married to Sir Henry Lawrence, Chief Commissioner of Adawh, who died during the siege. In reality he was married to his cousin Honoria.

New Year’s Day dawned grey and dreary, and Violet picked her way carefully across the garden. There had been a brief cold snap over Christmas, but now the snow was melting, leaving brown grass exposed. Violet had never been very interested in poetry, although Wordsworth would do if one was in a contemplative mood (the man had a healthy appreciation of the outdoors, while so many poets seemed to be sickly indoors sorts!) but today a line of verse from her girlhood French lessons kept repeating itself in her thoughts.

At the end of the lawn Violet turned and looked at the [house](http://lh.matthewbeckett.com/graphics/houses/lh_norfolk_stowbardolphhall_fs.jpg). This early in the morning most of the curtains on the first floor were still shut, though they had been drawn on the ground floor; it gave the house a sleepy-lidded look, as if it were slowly stirring into wakefulness. Violet felt a pang go through her; heartache felt so terribly like indigestion, but no dosage of Bateman’s Pectoral Drops would ease it. She shook herself, because she knew she was being terribly self-indulgent. The house didn’t even look very pretty under a grey sky, surrounded by slush. All the same, she murmured to herself: _Mais où sont les neiges d'antan?_ and let herself sigh once, quite heavily, before walking back across the grass to Stow Hall. 

Inside, she went upstairs to her mother’s bedroom. Waters would have brought Mama her morning cup of tea by now, and although Lady Hare hated to be disturbed in the morning – “a lady treasures these precious moments of solitude before facing the vicissitudes of the day” – Violet thought she would like to hear this.

“Happy New Year, Mama,” she said dutifully, although of course they had sung _Auld Lang Syne_ the night before. 

“1869! I never thought to live so long,” said Lady Hare, who liked on special occasions to reminisce about how the birth of each of her three children had nearly killed her. Violet made a noise of marvelling approval and sat down on the edge of the bed, hands folded in her lap.

“Mama,” she said, deciding to get straight to the point. “I have decided that should he propose, I will accept Lord Grantham’s offer of marriage.”

“Oh, thank heavens,” said Lady Hare. “Come here, my darling,” and she drew Violet into one of her rare embraces. “I always knew you were my most sensible daughter.” Since Violet had not, like her elder sister, been caught up in an Indian mutiny, this seemed to her a fairly self-evident conclusion regardless of her marital situation: but it was best not to bring Roberta up when her mother was in a good mood. Instead she leaned into her mother for a moment, and let herself be congratulated on putting aside the biliousness of affection in favour of cool, calm reason. 

***

Christmas Day 1919 was quite pleasant, even with the presence of Mary’s wretched fiancé. The man was so … aggressively middle class in his attitudes, always grubbing over money. It was pleasant to have Rosamund here, though; Violet supposed that a benefit of having a childless widow for a daughter was that she would never be too busy to spend Christmas with her Mama. Then Robert mentioned Lord Hepworth, and Violet felt her eyebrows go up. 

“I told him I was coming down here and he dropped hint after hint,” Rosamund explained, and Cora said in that naively charitable way Violet supposed Americans must find endearing:

“Perhaps he has nowhere to go. It can be a lonely time of year.”

“James Hepworth lonely? I find that hard to believe. Hepworth men don’t go in for loneliness much,” Violet replied, with a touch more asperity than she had intended. Still, she knew all about the Hepworth family’s fortunes, and took a moment to reflect that it was not _only_ the middle class who could be excessively preoccupied with money.

At the Dower House that evening, Violet felt herself given over to a rare fit of insomnia. Since she had reached her seventies, she’d found herself waking earlier and earlier each day – she supposed it was to make the most of what time she had left, which didn’t seem to her to be great compensation for the price of ageing, but there it was – but she rarely found it difficult to fall asleep. Tonight, however, her thoughts kept returning to Sebastian Hepworth, and at last she got out of bed and went to sit in the chair by the window. The moon was quite bright tonight, and Violet could see its light illuminating a fine flurry of snowfall.

“The snows of yesteryear,” murmured Violet, remembering the cold Boxing Day Hunt where she had first made Lord Hepworth’s acquaintance, in the winter of 1868.

***

Violet was not a particularly notable horsewoman, but she enjoyed a brisk ride as much as the next lady – and besides, the younger gentlemen _did_ look quite dashing in their hunting attire, especially her brother’s acquaintance Lord Hepworth. Violet might have expected to have met him during this summer’s Season, but he had spent it in America, investing in the Pacific Railroad. Apparently he had passed some months in California, which sounded terribly vulgar but also quite exciting, and Violet was keen to have an excuse to raise her eyebrows at him over it. She knew that her eyes were her best feature: her father had always said so. “You might not be as pretty as Roberta, but your eyes will make you a marvellous marriage,” he had remarked on her sixteenth birthday, and even though he had perhaps consumed too much brandy after dinner, the observation stayed with her. 

It was a bitterly cold day, with a high wind, but of course the Hunt ran whatever the weather. By mid-afternoon Violet was frozen, and she gave a cry of dismay when her riding hat flew off into a ditch. How could she retrieve it without dismounting? She certainly couldn’t mount the horse again by herself. A moment later, her quandary was solved when Lord Hepworth swung gracefully out of his saddle and found the hat, and brushed it off for her with his handkerchief.

“Thank you, my lord,” Violet said. “I see you didn’t lose your manners in America, which must be a relief,” and he grinned at her.

“Perhaps I’ve lost something else today, though, Miss Hare,” he said, and put a hand dramatically over his heart. Violet gave him something she privately referred to as a Look as she reaffixed her hat.

“You should speak to a physician, Lord Hepworth; that sounds quite dangerous. Now, is my hat straight? You shall have to be my mirror,” she said.

“You look like an angel in the snow, Miss Hare,” he said.

“I feel like a snow angel, given how cold it is,” she replied pertly, though her heart was beating absurdly fast, “and that was not an answer, my lord. Do pay attention.” Receiving confirmation that her hat was indeed straight, she nodded to him and took up Phoebe’s reins, returning to the hunt without a backward glance.

It was some time before she saw Lord Hepworth again, but during the Season in London they were very frequently together.

“Don’t pin too many hopes on him, my dear,” said her mother. “The Hepworths are notoriously flighty.”

“Don’t be silly, Mama,” said Violet, “I’m not that childish,” but all the same, she kept one of his calling cards tucked up in her jewellery box. Sometimes she would take it out to look at the curling print, and imagine what it might be like to call him _Sebastian_. 

The charming thing about Sebastian – Lord Hepworth – was that he made Violet feel exciting. When Violet was a girl, her mother had greeted every minor rebellion with: “I suppose you will marry a civil servant and move to India!” Ever since Roberta had survived the Siege of Lucknow, Violet’s sister had become the romantic member of the family; she was given dinner party invitations so she could sit at the table and make vaguely ominous pronouncements about Awadh, and then in the drawing room later drop tantalising hints behind her fan about the terrible conditions she had faced. Oh, Violet was sure it had all been quite ghastly – being in India would be dreadful enough as it was, without being locked up in the Residency for months on end – but it didn’t seem fair that Roberta should have become a pretty _and_ interesting widow. At ten years older than Violet, she should have retreated from the limelight, but no. Instead during the Season she received a proposal a week and refused them all: because, she said with a sigh, she missed her dear Harry too much, but Violet rather imagined it was because she thought she might once again become entirely respectable. So it had fallen to Violet to be sensible; but when she was dancing with Lord Hepworth, or sharing a sly remark with him over a mutual acquaintance, or hearing him laugh at her observations about the latest fashions, she felt – Well, she felt like one of the silly giggling girls she had always rather looked down on ever since she was a debutante, but somehow this summer she couldn’t find it in herself to mind it. 

Which was why, after they had returned home for the Glorious Twelfth and a visiting friend had casually mentioned that Lord Hepworth was recently engaged to Lady Margaret Inglis, Violet allowed herself the unusual indulgence of pleading a headache and returning to bed. Her mother found her there an hour later.

“There, my dear, you mustn’t cry,” said Lady Hare. “We’ve all suffered disappointments in love! Is anything in the world more delicate than a woman’s heart?” 

“Only my vanity,” said Violet bullishly, who hated it when her mother fancied herself a romantic, “and I wasn’t crying, Mama, don’t be ridiculous.” 

Lady Hare prudently chose to ignore Violet’s red eyes, and sat down on the bed next to her. 

“You know she’s an heiress, this Lady Margaret? I suppose that’s why Hepworth wants her – that family is always short of cash. If only their charm could be translated into currency; they would be quite the richest family in Hertfordshire.” 

“Mama, I said my head hurts,” said Violet pettishly, lying back on the pillow and shutting her eyes.

“All right, darling,” said her mother, “we won’t speak of it again.” She squeezed her daughter’s hand, and quietly left the room. Only when Violet heard her footsteps retreat down the corridor did she allow herself to roll onto her stomach and sob into her pillow. It must be her sinuses – they did have a tendency when congested to make her eyes stream. 

***

Lord Grantham had courted her a little during the Season, she supposed; she had barely noticed, caught up as she was in thinking about Lord Hepworth. Patrick Crawley was a nice enough man: a little staid, perhaps, but eminently respectable. She hadn’t thought about him at all since the last time she saw him in London, and so when he came to stay for a couple of days in November Violet was very surprised to find she had apparently made a much greater impression upon him than he had upon her. 

“Remembering what you said at Lady Carmichael’s dinner, about being sorry not to have seen India, I thought you might like to read Mr Collins’s _The Moonstone_ ,” he said, quite earnestly, “for it concerns a story of an Indian diamond, and the mystery in it is quite splendid recently. It came out last year and I was quite gripped.”

“Oh,” Violet said, surprised anyone should remember such a vapid remark, “I didn’t mean it, Lord Grantham! Goodness, whyever would I want to go to India? No, I only said it because she is a particular friend of my sister, and I suppose it polite to pretend to find Roberta quite as fascinating as she does,” she continued, with a sharp little smile. Lately Roberta’s letters had been particularly grating on her, because they insisted on being _sympathetic_ , at length, about that wretched Lord Hepworth. 

“I see,” said Lord Grantham, looking quite crestfallen, and Violet, feeling an unexpected pang of sympathy, said quickly:

“But of course it is very kind of you to bring the novel, my lord. I’m sure I will enjoy it, should I find time to read it. You know how busy the festive season can be.” 

Violet thought little more of it, but her mother had taken note of the exchange, and decided to invite Lord Grantham to join them for Christmas.

“Mama, we barely know him,” said Violet, exasperated.

“Nonsense,” said Lady Hare comfortably, “your father knew his father quite well, didn’t you, Geoffrey?” Sir Geoffrey murmured his assent from across the drawing room. “And since both his parents have died he will be quite alone. How lonely it is to be a bachelor at Christmas!” she added, with a note of triumph that made Violet realise her plan.

“Well, I hope he won’t come. He’s rather dull, and Antony tells me he rides abominably.”

But attend he did, and he rode in the Hunt too, even if he made rather a pig’s ear of it. Violet couldn’t help comparing him to Lord Hepworth the year before, gracefully clearing each fence and hedge… But she also felt a grudging sort of admiration at his determination to stick the day out, despite his ineptitude. Violet always had a soft spot for triers. 

His attempts at wooing her were equally worthy and awkward. She supposed there was something a little endearing about it: whilst he might not be the most exciting man, in general conversation he was reasonably articulate and intelligent, but when he spoke to her it was painfully clear he was trying to make a good impression. She longed to tell him to relax, but she feared that would embarrass him. Or worse, prompt him into a proposal, and she wasn’t sure she was quite ready for that. 

“Do be sensible, dear,” said her mother, “he’s a very good catch. Downton Abbey is a lovely property, and Lord Grantham has an excellent reputation.” 

This was all perfectly reasonable, and so Violet couldn’t bring herself to say the very childish thing of: _but I don’t **love** him!_ So she simply continued in being polite but not encouraging to Lord Grantham, and hoped he would take the message and leave her alone. 

“Maybe you should give him a chance,” said Roberta quietly on New Year’s Eve; she had arrived that afternoon for the festivities.

“I thought you’d find him boring,” said Violet, surprised.

“Exciting can be overrated,” replied Roberta, a little sadly… And Violet wondered for the first time if all Roberta’s thrilling stories about India were, in fact, only a consolation prize for the husband she had lost during the siege, two days before it had been lifted. “It might be nice,” Roberta continued, “to always know exactly what your husband was going to do.” Violet thought about Lord Hepworth, who in July had told her she had the most beautiful eyes and who in August had got engaged to another woman, and wondered if perhaps her sister was right. Dependability might not be a very exciting quality, but it was certainly a useful one. 

On New Year’s morning, after Violet had taken her walk in the garden and determined to put aside childish things, she returned downstairs from her mother’s bedroom and went to the breakfast room. Her father was there, along with Lord Grantham and Roberta.

“Have you been for a walk, Violet? In the snow, so early in the morning!” said Roberta.

“Oh, the snow’s mostly melted,” said Violet, taking her seat.

“What a pity,” said Roberta. “It looked terribly romantic.”

“Good riddance, I say,” said Lord Grantham. “Snow may look quite scenic, but it makes every day business rather difficult. In Downton we plough the streets to make sure the villagers can get about.”

Violet thought about Lord Hepworth, and how he had called her an angel in the snow. She doubted he had ever thought about the practicalities of travel in winter, or about the comfort of the villagers at Hatton. And so she smiled at Lord Grantham.

“I quite agree, my lord,” she said, and was rather gratified by the somewhat silly smile that crossed his face. She rather thought she might like a May wedding; she heard that Yorkshire was its best in the spring. 

***

It was a June wedding, in the end, but quite lovely, the finest early summer day of 1869, and now Violet had been living in Yorkshire for fifty years at dear, reliable Downton. Even her son’s American wife, and Robert’s unfortunate embracing of new-fangled technologies like electricity, couldn’t change its essential nature. Hatton Park, meanwhile, was sold, gone from the Hepworth family forever. Violet eased herself slowly out of the chair and made her way back to bed. She did not trust James Hepworth with her daughter, but unlike Rosamund she had the dubious good fortune to have been fooled by a Hepworth man once already. Rosamund was a grown woman, and a widow, and so Violet supposed she had the right to make her own decisions: but if Violet could influence those decisions to move in a direction of which she approved, so much the better. This decided, she closed her eyes, and found it very easy to go to sleep. Outside, the snowfall slowed, then stopped.


End file.
